


Only the Sky and the Earth to Bind You (Extra Scenes from Leashed)

by riventhorn



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:36:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The king is dead, and now Arthur must make a choice. A scene from "Leased" from Arthur's pov.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Sky and the Earth to Bind You (Extra Scenes from Leashed)

His father’s last breath passed his lips silently, merely a gasp that lifted Uther’s chest before he sank back onto the pillows, fixed eyes staring at the far wall. No final words. No wisdom for his son, now king of the realm that Uther had carved out of a bloody war and guarded with magic and chains and hard steel.

Arthur remained sitting by the bedside, not moving for long minutes. Finally, he sighed and reached out to close his father’s eyes. His hand didn’t shake, but he stood up quickly and moved away, walking over to the fireplace. A few embers still glowed, and he tossed on another log, busying himself with making sure it caught and feeding a few more sticks into the flames.

 _I am the king_.

It felt as though he had been waiting his entire life for those words. A life spent preparing and training and studying—all for this moment. Soon the crown would be resting on his head, and he would be sitting on the throne, staring out at the court, the town, the kingdom. His court. His kingdom. His people.

His choices to make.

 _“He put me in a collar! He hurt me. He thought I was worthless—a thing, not a person!”_

Arthur’s fingers strayed to his wrist, searching for the smooth metal of the bracelet. But it was with Merlin, surely asleep at this hour, curled up in their bed. His eyes strayed to this bed, to his father’s corpse, and he turned away. He needed to leave. He couldn’t think here.

“The king is dead,” he told the guard in the corridor, and the man’s eyes widened before he dropped them, bowing his head. “Fetch the court physician and my father’s servants. Tell them to start preparing his body for burial.”

“Yes, your high—your majesty,” the guard replied, and Arthur heard the words again: _I am the king._

He longed to return to his own chambers, to crawl into bed with Merlin and hold him closely, to lose himself in the pleasure that burned golden-hot between them. But he couldn’t yet. He needed to be alone for this, couldn’t risk Merlin picking up on his thoughts.

So he went to the armory—familiar with its smells of metal and leather that had seeped into his skin over the hours and hours of practice when the hilt of the sword had left deep grooves embedded in his palm. A squire was there, polishing some chainmail, and Arthur ordered him to leave. The boy squeaked and dropped his rag, tripping over himself on his way out the door. Arthur ignored him, picking up a sword and sitting down, slowly running a whetstone along the blade.

 _A sorcerer is to be executed—_

 _He didn’t hurt anyone. He wasn’t even powerful enough to pose a threat—_

 _You will not question the king’s decisions—Is that understood?_

He still remembered, quite clearly, the first time he had looked at Merlin and thought: He is a prisoner. He is chained and collared and compelled to do as I wish. I am free, and he is not.

It had been just after his sixteenth birthday, when Merlin had needed a new collar. The chain could be unfastened from it, allowing Merlin to move more freely around Arthur’s chambers when he had been left there, the bracelet hanging from its peg on the wall. He couldn’t go far, but he didn’t have to stay in the dim alcove that housed his narrow bed. One day, Arthur had returned from archery practice to find Merlin standing at the window, looking down into the courtyard. Arthur had gone over to see what he was looking at, jostling Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin shoved back, but kept staring out the window. Looking down, Arthur saw that a juggler was entertaining a crowd of townsfolk and guards. Brightly colored balls whirled in the air over his head, twisting into circles.

He had glanced at Merlin, who had one hand pressed against the windowpane, a wistful little smile on his face. He had almost started to say, teasing, “You have legs, Merlin. Why don’t you go down for a closer look?” and then he had realized—Merlin couldn’t. He could only go if Arthur put on the bracelet and took him.

He knew how the collar worked, of course—had always known. But he had always associated it with magic, with danger and power and battle. Not with little things like this. Being able to go for a walk, to nip down to the kitchens for a bite to eat, or to the library to fetch a book. All things Arthur could do whenever he felt like it. All things that had nothing to do with magic.

Looking back, he still felt a sting of shame at how long it had taken him to truly understand. And what had he done with that knowledge? Nothing.

Arthur laid aside the sword, and took up another, beginning the steady movements of stone against blade once again.

He had done nothing. Not after that first time he pressed his lips to Merlin’s. Not after he began waking each morning to Merlin wrapped in his arms. Not even after Merlin whispered his love aloud, putting into words what already had been felt between them.

His father would never have listened, never have understood. There was love there, too. Pride and love and trust, and Arthur couldn’t bring himself to break it.

But now—now he no longer had to consider what his father would think.

 _I am the king_ , he told himself again. _I am the king, and I can—I can—_

The sword slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the floor, but he paid it no heed, burying his head in his hands. _My little bird_.

He had called Merlin that because of his name, but over time he had come to see the bitter irony in it. His little bird—like the falcons tethered in the mews or the lark that chirped in a sunny corner of Morgana’s chambers, caged behind metal bars. If they were set free, they would fly away, disappearing into the bright sky. If he set Merlin free—

He knew, _knew_ that Merlin loved him. But if Merlin had a choice would he stay by his side? Would he stay in the cage he had been kept in for so many years or would he leave, returning only infrequently, a few visits measured out over the long course of the year? And if he wanted to leave, how could Arthur ask him to stay? He couldn’t. He couldn’t grant Merlin freedom and then demand such a thing from him.

The thought of losing Merlin tore into him, heavy and painful. He reached for his wrist where the bracelet would rest, wanting the reassurance, the knowledge that Merlin would always be there.

 _I am the king._

His choice to make. _Merlin’s_ choice to make.

His fingers closed around the bare skin of his wrist. _I will never wear it again. I swear it_.

**

Merlin fidgeted, tugging at the fine blue wool of his tunic, the edges weighted with gilt embroidery, fitting for a warlock that belonged to a king. He scuffed his boots—also new—against the stones and then shot a guilty look at Sir Leon, who held the bracelet and chain. Sir Leon’s mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes forward, focused on the dais.

Arthur could just see them from the corner of his eye, his head bowed as he recited the oaths of kingship. He had barely had a chance to speak to Merlin what with the preparations for his father’s burial, the coronation, the thousand questions and problems he needed to address. And when they had been together—Arthur knew that he should say something, tell Merlin that after tomorrow, he would be free, but the words wouldn’t come. If he started, he wouldn’t be able to keep back the question— _Will you stay?_ —and he wasn’t sure if he could bear to hear the answer.

He should discuss it with the Council as well and alert them to what he planned. He would not free Merlin only. The other warlocks would be released, too, and that could present problems. He trusted Merlin, of course, but the others—some of them had been treated very harshly. What they would do upon being given their freedom, he could not say.

He never did speak to the Council. After the coronation and the feasting and dancing, all he wanted was to retire to his rooms with Merlin. He could tell that Merlin sensed the emotions churning within him and was puzzled when Arthur hung up the bracelet without ever fastening it to his wrist. But he seemed to attribute it to Arthur’s grief over his father and simply lay down by Arthur’s side, giving him a soft kiss before burrowing into the pillows.

Arthur waited until he fell asleep and then smoothed his fingers over Merlin’s hair and traced the outline of his face—not touching because he didn’t want Merlin to wake.

He arose early the next morning, dressing swiftly and going to the library. Geoffrey was already bent over a book, quill waving busily in front of his nose. Arthur handed him a piece of parchment.

“Prepare this as a formal proclamation,” Arthur ordered. “I want it ready for me to sign by midday.”

Geoffrey scanned the parchment, and he paled. “Sire, surely you do not mean—”

“I mean every word,” Arthur broke in. “Every word.” He straightened. “Will you do as your king commands?”

Geoffrey hesitated, but then he bowed his head. “Yes, sire. It shall be as you say.”

The morning dragged on, and tension tightened Arthur’s stomach as he waited in the throne room, watching as the courtiers assembled. At last, he called for Merlin to be brought before him.

Sir Leon fetched him, and Arthur could see the confusion on Merlin’s face as he walked hesitantly into the hall, slowly approaching the throne. He started to kneel, but Arthur shook his head, standing up, only just managing to keep from running to Merlin and holding him tight in his arms. He kept his footsteps slow and firm as he stepped closer. Sir Leon handed him the bracelet, and he gripped it, the metal biting into his palms. His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t take his eyes away from Merlin’s face. His fingers fumbled at the chain, and he finally unhooked it. He held the bracelet a second longer, and then flung it away.

Merlin’s eyes met his, then, worried, filled with panicked questions. _It will be all right. You know I would never hurt you_ , Arthur told him silently, and Merlin calmed, waited. Arthur took the chain off the collar and let it fall. Finally, his fingers touched the collar itself, feeling along it for the almost imperceptible clasp that only he could undo. It opened, and he drew the collar away.

He gathered his breath. “I trust you,” he managed in a soft voice. “I trust you, Merlin.” _Please don’t leave me_. Raising his voice, he cast his eyes over the rest of the court. “From this day forth, practicing magic is no longer a crime in my kingdom.” Ignoring the shocked murmurs, he lowered his voice again, looking back at Merlin. “The others will be released as well.”

Merlin looked stunned, disbelieving. His fingers trembled as he raised them to his throat, and Arthur fought down the urge to clasp them in his own, to hold Merlin close and beg his forgiveness, beg him to stay. Merlin’s eyes flared with gold, and Arthur held his breath—would Merlin disappear? Would he whirl away in a burst of magic, stretching his powers and senses against the world that opened boundless before him? His connection to Merlin suddenly felt so tenuous—easily snapped by the reckless magic unleashed in Merlin’s veins.

But then the gold faded, and Merlin’s eyes were blue again and filled with tears. He went down on one knee, bowing his head. “Thank you, my liege,” he whispered, and continued in a clear voice, “I pledge my loyalty. I pledge my loyalty to you, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur touched Merlin’s shoulder, and some of the fear eased inside him.

**

The Council surrounded him as soon as the proclamation had been signed, demanding answers, hinting none too subtly that they thought he was making a terrible decision. Several of the knights who kept warlocks looked especially furious—and some knights he suspected of mistreating those in their care looked afraid. Arthur could not dredge up a great deal of sympathy for them.

All he had to do was look at Merlin, standing in a corner, to know he had made the right choice. Merlin had a dazed expression on his face, and he kept reaching up to touch his throat. A small smile crept at the edges of Merlin’s mouth before fading again into a look of uncertainty, as though Merlin couldn’t quite believe he had been freed and wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Arthur finally called him over.

“Why don’t you go visit Gwen?” he suggested.

“I—I can?” Merlin replied slowly, his eyes fixed on Arthur.

“Yes. You can do whatever you like.” Arthur paused. “Besides conjuring a rainstorm in my chambers, spelling my boots to shrink, or turning my hair green.”

Merlin laughed and tilted his head. “I think green might look rather fetching on you. And you’ve left out quite a few curses, you know. Such as the one that turns your hair into feathers.”

“Feathers?” Arthur raised his eyebrows. “How you acquired the reputation of being such a fearsome warlock, I really don’t know.”

A smile, and then Merlin took a step towards the door. He stopped and glanced back at Arthur, his hand starting to reach for his neck before he clenched it in a fist at his side.

“It’s all right,” Arthur told him gently, and Merlin relaxed but didn’t move. Arthur added, “Unless you’d rather stay here, of course, and fetch dinner for everyone.”

“Um, right—leaving immediately,” Merlin said quickly. His shoulders lifted as he drew in a deep breath, and then he walked to the door—slowly at first and then faster until he turned the corner and disappeared into the corridor.

Arthur just managed to stop himself from calling him back.

**

He didn’t worry at first. A long afternoon of arguments with the Council, which devolved into shouting on more than one occasion, kept him occupied. He finally told them, in a voice as much like his father’s as he could make it, that he was not going to condemn people to a lifetime of slavery simply because they were born with the ability to use magic and that he would brook no dissension on the matter.

The dinner hour was long past, but before he could manage a bite to eat, a messenger arrived with reports that Cenred was sending skirmish parties past the border, testing the strength of Camelot’s defenders in the wake of Uther’s death. He immediately ordered out two companies as reinforcements and began considering strategies in case Cenred persisted. They would need to determine immediately how many warlocks might choose to stay and fight—and how many might decide to throw their support behind Cenred instead.

An unpleasant shiver crawled up Arthur’s back at the thought of releasing some of them—Edwin, for example. He wouldn’t be surprised if a few of the warlocks tried to kill him on the spot. But he would not rescind his decision. If any went on to cause harm or strife, then he would hunt them down, but they deserved the chance to determine their own path. Anyway, with Merlin at his side, few would dare to strike out—they all knew the strength of Merlin’s powers.

 _If_ Merlin was at his side. Arthur glanced out the window. Evening was coming on, and there was no sign of Merlin. He could be gone—already out of the city, venturing into the skies on wings of magic. Arthur’s hand closed around his bare wrist. A lonely ache welled up inside him, and he wanted to _feel_ Merlin—wanted to know that Merlin loved him, wanted him, trusted him.

He had supper sent to his chambers, but didn’t have much of an appetite. He kept watching the door, waiting for it to open. If Merlin had been there, they might have played a game of chess or settled in front of the fire with a bottle of wine. Wine always made Merlin sleepy, and he would rest his head on Arthur’s chest while Arthur stroked his hair.

He could send the guards out to look for Merlin. But he didn’t want to ruin things—didn’t want Merlin to feel like an errant child who couldn’t be left on his own. And if Merlin was gone—well, there was no point in looking for him then.

His chambers seemed so empty, too quiet without Merlin’s voice and presence to fill them. When Arthur crawled into bed, it felt all wrong, and he lay staring at the wall, too unsettled to find sleep.

The candle had burned low, wax pooling on the table, when the door opened softly. Arthur drew in a breath, fingers clutching the blanket. It could be merely a servant or a guard.

But then Merlin was there, closing the door behind him. Arthur must have made a sound, although he was too consumed by relief to know quite what he was doing, for Merlin turned around quickly.

“You’re still awake,” Merlin said, and he stood, unmoving, hands twisting at the hem of his tunic.

“Yes,” Arthur managed to say. He gripped the sheet hard enough to hear a seam rip.

“I was out walking. Just walking and looking at the stars.” Merlin groped for the back of the nearest chair and held tightly.

“Yes,” Arthur said again, couldn’t think, could hardly breathe. He reached out his hand.

In a second, Merlin was across the room, clambering onto the bed, wrapping his arms tightly around Arthur, seeking Arthur’s mouth with his own. “Arthur,” he gasped. “ _Arthur_.”

“You stayed,” Arthur whispered, twining his fingers in Merlin’s hair. “You stayed.”

Merlin made a little noise, and Arthur needed more. Desperate, he pushed at Merlin’s tunic and tugged at his breeches until Merlin was stretched under him, skin pale in the light of the guttering candle. He started to mouth at Merlin’s neck, but he didn’t want Merlin to think he was regretting his decision, so he moved lower, tonguing at Merlin’s nipples, stroking his stomach, brushing the sharp angle of a hipbone. Merlin arched back, his fingers digging into Arthur’s shoulders.

His cock was hard between his legs, and he slid his fingers along Merlin’s arse, rubbing, seeking entrance. It was different—he couldn’t sense what Merlin was feeling, wasn’t sure, didn’t want to hurt. “Merlin, please, please, I have to—”

“Yes,” Merlin said, spreading his legs. “Yes, Arthur.”

He couldn’t get close enough to Merlin, couldn’t touch him enough. Not when his fingers brushed a glistening trail of oil over Merlin’s skin. Not when he sank into Merlin, groaning at the tightness, listening to Merlin’s breath catch. Not when he held Merlin’s gaze, gently thrusting forward, his hands touching and reassuring, trying to communicate what had always passed effortlessly between them.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, and Merlin pushed back, fingers scrabbling for something to hold, moaning as Arthur began moving faster.

Each thrust elicited a wordless cry from Merlin, and Arthur reached between them to wrap his hand around Merlin’s cock. He paused, trembling with the effort of holding still, Merlin clenched tight around him, and stroked until Merlin came, shuddering. He started moving again, fucking Merlin through the fading pleasure, watching as Merlin’s eyes flickered to gold and tendrils of magic wrapped up his arms, pulling him closer, urging him faster. Groaning, he gave one more thrust and then spilled inside Merlin, laying his head on Merlin’s chest.

Merlin smoothed his fingers through Arthur’s sweaty hair. Arthur didn’t want to move—wanted to stay locked in Merlin’s body, close enough to feel his heartbeat and listen to him breathing. But finally Merlin stirred, nudging at him, and Arthur reluctantly rolled off. Merlin immediately pressed close again, though, curling into his arms. Arthur kissed his forehead, his mouth, his fingers still seeking out the familiar angles and shadowed curves of Merlin’s body.

Merlin didn’t say anything, but there were a hundred little things—the tilt of his mouth, the way his fingers slowly brushed against Arthur’s skin—that spoke as eloquently as their bond through the collar once had. And when he woke up the next morning to find Merlin still there beside him, already awake and wearing a drowsy, happy smile, the last sliver of fear melted away. Merlin belonged to no one now except himself, and he had chosen to stay.


End file.
